


Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow

by ellebb



Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Blow Jobs, Control Issues, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Morality, Oral Sex, Relationship Conflict, Sex in a Car, Smut, also humming, i'm a jerk to mac for some reason???, like jeez girlfriend chill, that's real specific imo, there's a tag for sex in an impala
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:44:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7315681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellebb/pseuds/ellebb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evelyn and Hancock have started their <em>arrangement</em>, but as they travel with MacCready, they encounter a problem.  There's a real nice spot overlooking a certain Gunner camp, <em>perfect</em> for sniping, but the owners want nothing to do with them or the Minutemen.  No matter what Evelyn offers with her relentless charm, they won't be swayed.  And she's not accustomed to being refused.  Hancock isn't sure about this woman anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whose Bright Idea Was it to Make Hancock the Voice of Reason?

**Author's Note:**

> Occurs after [Runaround Romantic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7189811/chapters/16318217), but can be read on its own. Some smut in this first chapter, mostly in the second~~~~

“And you’re fine with that?  Those pricks in your backyard, and everything’s cool,” Evelyn said.

The woman squinted at her, the heat darkening her cheeks and neck to nearly a black color.  She shrugged thin shoulders, not yet bowed but slanted in a way that was telling of age.

“The fuck’s a backyard?” she spat.

The other woman hovering at her shoulder adjusted the weight of her holster.  A .44 glinted under her armpit.  Like a beast cuddling up under her umber-colored arm.  Maybe a threat, but magnum ammo was always a scarcity.  Hancock rubbed his chin.  He would love to check what was in that chamber.

Evelyn shifted.  He couldn’t see her expression from where he stood behind her and MacCready, but he knew she was stifling exasperation.  Not that she let on, with easy-slung hips and an idle hand nursing a cigarette.  MacCready was practically vibrating with tension; he had his arms crossed, trying too hard to appear like he didn’t want to pull his rifle off his back with white-knuckled hands.  Hancock leaned back into the dusty plaster of a wall, glancing over his shoulder out a window.

The window was open, glass-less, frame-less, and really only a thin line from being called a window to something more like _giant-ass crater in the wall_.  Hancock idly popped a mentat and squinted.  They were three stories off the ground in a converted maintenance point along the rail line.  Sparse scrub and woods spread down the ridge from the tracks, down into the river.  The looping, hovering monstrosity of the interstate sat directly across from their line of sight in this building.

“They never bother us,” the owner shrugged.  She was the more assertive of the couple, more verbal.  Janice or somethin’?

Evelyn tapped her cigarette. “I can double whatever they’re paying--”

The quieter one snorted. “Ain’t paying us.  We’re paying them.”

“That’s _extortion_ \--”

“The fuck’s that?”

Evelyn said nothing, and Hancock could just imagine the wheels in her head furiously turning.

He pushed off the wall and slid toward MacCready.  The others ignored him until Hancock slipped the scoped rifle off the merc’s back.  The women’s hands went to their side pieces, whipping them up with that special flavor of ‘Wealth hot hands.  MacCready and Evelyn were suddenly armed as well, trying to keep eyes on the women and Hancock at the same time.

Hancock ignored them, sauntering back to the window.

“Hancock, what the heck?” MacCready demanded.

He propped up the sniper rifle and peered down the scope at the tangle of highway off in the distance.

“ _Be careful_ \--”

“Relax, Bobby.  I ain’t gonna pull your girlfriend’s trigger,” Hancock said.

He couldn’t tell which, but one of the women chuckled despite herself.  He felt the room relax at his back.  Hancock kept one ear on the conversation and the rest of his attention on the sight on Mass Pike Interchange.  Turned over ruins of pre-war vehicles and built up habitats popped up here and there.  Turrets regularly shuddering from one rotation to the next.  Even an assaultron patrolling along the highway.  And finally -- those olive green assholes swarming everywhere.

Gunners.  So yeah, MacCready was a little tense.  Especially since he swore up and down that Winlock and Barnes were up there.  Hancock lazily followed a Gunner as he strode up and down a wooden perch.  If he were patient enough, he could make the shot.  But patience wasn’t in his wheelhouse, and neither was sniping.  That was more MacCready and Evelyn’s style.

And they could _really_ practice their style here.  Best cover for miles, and a great view of the Interchange.  Maybe wouldn’t get used as a sniping post just yet; they weren’t ready to storm the Gunner camp, but the info about the coming and goings of the gang would be very welcome.  Oberland Station and Hangman’s Alley had each been hit with Gunner raids recently.  There’d been casualties.  And the Minutemen’s General had set out to fix the problem.

But negotiations broke down.  No matter how Evelyn wheedled in her cool, casual way, picking at any loose thread in the women’s defenses -- they would not be swayed.  Yeah, they could get out of paying protection money, but they’d risk backlash if the Gunners smelled something off.  And risk was not something you indulged in when you had a good thing going.  The women -- Jean and Bette -- were a team; one talks while the other watches.

And there was no leeway in between them for Evelyn to get a foot in.

“I’ll take first watch,” MacCready muttered, eyes conspicuously scanning their surroundings.

They were several hours’ walk from the maintenance station by the rail tracks, heading back east towards central Boston.  They’d set up camp in the trailer of a broke down Nuka Cola truck.  And MacCready had that studied _I’m not feeling awkward_ look to his face.  Hancock winked at the merc.

“C’mon, don’t be like that,” he said. “We’ll be quiet this time.”

Evelyn snorted.

Poor Mac.  Since they’d started traveling together, just over a week, he’d taken up first watch to avoid the _post-battle_ activities of the other two.  Hancock was still slightly amazed that all this sex was happening to him, so maybe they’d been rather _enthusiastic_.  Okay, mostly Hancock, but whatever.  He guessed MacCready wasn’t into being lullaby’d by loud ghoul-getting-off sounds.  Maybe it’d be different if it was _the (hot) boss_ , but she was quieter than he’d thought she’d be, _and_ surprisingly unfazed by Hancock.

Sometimes you got these types.  Wasn’t the mayor’s caps or power or whatever they wanted.  The smoothskin just wanted to screw a ghoul.  A change of pace, satisfy their curiosity.  A quick fuck to scratch an itch.  Hancock was used to it.  Granted, it didn’t go on for more than a night or two.  And didn’t go on going-on with no clear end in sight.

Just like this current session.

Hancock wasn’t sure how long he could keep this up.  He didn’t consider himself a man of low stamina, but _jesus_ his balls were gonna fucking combust at this rate.  It felt like all his blood had concentrated in his junk and was pulsing rapidly, hotly.  He thrust back into her with force, the hand he had supporting her back slipping in sweat.  He was relatively quiet and panting into her shoulder, all the moaning dying off while he tried to concentrate on not losing his shit.  Hancock used his other hand to rub her clit more insistently, and tilted her neck back to nip along the vulnerable, salty flesh.

Evelyn groaned.  More in frustration than pleasure, probably.  Her own motions to meet his had petered out long ago, the muscles in her legs wrapped around him twitching and utterly tense.  And the tension, the gripping, kept building and suddenly waning as Hancock paced his snapping hips and working hands.  His head was burning and his knees were starting to chafe against the rough bedroll laid over corrugated metal.  Her nails dragged down his back, catching on the vertebrae, the ropey texture.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Evelyn swore, dropping away from him.

“ _I’m tryin’--_ ”

She shoved sweat-slicked hair from her flushed face.  Red light bounced off the red container’s walls and ran along her naked body.  The waist, the tits, that skin.  Hancock’s balls really, really ached.  He swallowed, staring down at her looking up at him.

“Nevermind,” Evelyn growled, lifting herself.

She pushed him back a little, and he popped out, dripping.  Hancock grunted; even that motion had him dying, shit.  Pulling up, she kneeled and pressed against him.  Her hands gripped his cock with blessedly firm pressure.

“Go on,” she sighed into his ear.

Well, he _tried_ to be a gentleman.  But it only took a couple jerks and he was spurting his load all over her hands and stomach.  Hancock groaned, low and loud.  Limp, he leaned against her shoulder with his dick twitching in relief.  He inhaled her heat and tang for a moment, feeling the thrum of her heart through her flesh.  She gave him a moment before moving away.  And he knew better than to hold on.

Part of the rules: no intimacy, no touching or kissing, outside of sex.  No post-coitus lingering, no getting confused.

Hancock’s hazy mind registered Evelyn cleaning herself up and redressing.  He laid down and rolled over to pull a tin of mentats out of his discarded coat’s pocket.  Settling on his back, he popped a bitter tablet and watched her.  She didn’t bother with repairing her appearance, tying her hair back loosely, black smudges around her eyes.  Silent, she had a stiff set to her lips.

Hancock rolled the mentat around as it dissolved.  He _did_ try.  He wanted to feel worse, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped.  He’d make it up later.  Still, kinda funny ‘cause it was the first time she’d had trouble getting off.  Maybe he should feel reassured.  That she wasn’t the type to fake it.  Either sex was good or it wasn’t, or somewhere inbetween, and it just took a little attention and adjustment to get to that consistent good.  And you can’t get to that place if there was faking going on.

Evelyn rolled open the door to the truck’s bed with a metallic rumble.  She hopped out, rifles slung over her back.  She closed the door back, and the blue light of the moon fled the red steel container as quickly as it entered.  Hancock lit a cigarette.

His heart rate back to normal, he considered some things.  Janey and …?  Whatever, the couple.  How long had they been holding down that little spot overlooking the big Gunner camp?  Years?  Decades?  And still together, their slack-skinned hands on their pistols and on each other.

Hancock blew smoke.  That would never be him.  Nope, he’d shut out that sort of possibility when he shot his arm full of that experimental drug.

Nope.  Forever wasn’t for John Hancock, even if he had more time than ever.

He glanced at the closed truck door.  MacCready hadn’t crawled in, so they must be chatting it up.  Hancock sat up, tapping ashes off his cigarette.  He wasn’t tired, and the air in here was getting stuffy.   And if he were honest, he was a little worried about where Evelyn’s head was right now.

Hancock shrugged into his coat and put on the old tricorn.  The truck door clattered as he rolled it up.  The night air washed over him like… like a fucking wash of cool night air after getting some, shit, he wasn’t a poet for chrissakes.  The wasteland was mild and starry and moon-y.  He plopped down on the lip of the truck bed, swinging his feet over the edge.

Evelyn and MacCready were a couple yards down the road.  They had their hands on their guns, eyes on their surroundings, but their attention was on each other.  Their heads were together, mouths low and muttering.  MacCready kept glancing back the way they’d come.

“...could make those shots _blindfolded_ , boss.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Just _sitting_ up there.  And it would take them ages to make it to us.  Yeah, that roost up there gives good sightlines for miles, but that elevator can’t take them all down at once.”

“Mmm.  Get one rifle in the station taking the brass up top, another picking the infantry off as they use the elevator.”

“At the very least, we get to disable that assaultron before going up there.”

“I fucking hate assaultrons.”

“And the _loot_ , boss. Thinking of the fu- freaking _loot_.”

Hancock shifted.  He wasn’t really digging where this dynamic was headed.  Evelyn was obviously still sore that she hadn’t been able to turn the station owners over to her side.  She liked getting her way, was used to it.  So when it didn’t happen, her pride got all wounded and chomping at the bit to fix the ‘problem.’  And MacCready was too anxious about the Gunners breathing down his neck; he was too eager to egg the boss on.

“That old outpost they had would’ve been perfect,” MacCready said mournfully.

“Yeah,” Evelyn said, staring off into the night.

She idly thumbed her rifle and shifted her weight from foot to foot.

“Well,” she said. “There was only the two of them.”

Hancock dropped his cigarette.  What the flying fuck.

MacCready said nothing, but his expression was somewhere between surprise, relief that she had said it first, and a queasy desire to run with that sliver of a suggestion.  Hancock felt his blood rise, and sweat newly prickled at his temple as he struggled to tame his rising tide of emotion.

“You’re talkin’ like a two-cap scumbag raider,” he said, low and clear to carry over to the other two.

They turned around.  MacCready at least had the good grace to look nervous at the heat in the mayor’s voice, but Evelyn looked back at him behind a mental wall crashing into place, preparing for siege.  Her black eyes were unreadable.  It’s not that they didn’t know he was there; the truck door made too much noise for that.  But they’d elected to carry on their conversation like it wasn’t heading toward shitville real fast.  Like Hancock wouldn’t care.

“We’re just talking, Hancock,” Evelyn said, cocking a brow.

He jumped down, dusted off the rear of his coat.  His boots kicked little rocks as he walked the cracked, uneven patch of road between him and them.  Him and them.  He didn’t like this weird feeling putting the three into categories of _him_ and _them_.  Fuck that.

“And just talkin’ leads to just considerin’ and that just becomes a slick ride down to a level where you can justify anything,” Hancock said.

He lit a new cigarette.  White smoke wafting, he squinted at them in the dark.  MacCready shifted under his gaze.

“And we’re better than that, right, Mac?” Hancock said, voice dropping even further.

The merc held his gaze for a moment, then dropped it like the scalding pitch blackness Hancock knew his eyes could be.  MacCready nodded.

“Sure, Hancock, sure,” he said. “It was just talk.”

One down.  He turned to consider _her_.  She stared back.  No way she would be cowed, even if she knew she was wrong.  She was too proud.  Hancock _hoped_ she knew she was wrong here.  Or this definitely wasn’t the type of woman he wanted around.  No matter how good she screwed.  Evelyn shrugged, tilting her head up to stare down her pretty nose at him.

“Fine, then,” she said. “You know about people, Mayor Hancock.  Tell us a good idea.  How do we convince them if they don’t want money, connections, or blood spilt?”

Hancock frowned. “Some people can’t be convinced.”

“Bullshit,” she said, eyes flashing. “Everyone’s got a price.  Not always money, but there’s always a _need_.  Everyone’s a whore for something.”

“Godammit,” he snapped. “You always gotta be so goddamned cynical about people?”

Something shifted in her eyes.  Good.  Someone needed to tell her to just fucking let be for once.  It was like a damn compulsion with her; always looking for an angle, a way to profit.  It was good for running practically half of the whole fucking Commonwealth on her own power, but sometimes she let it blind her.

“Oberland and Hangman’s have five dead because of those fuckers out there,” Evelyn growled, her composure completely dissipated. “And there’ll be more if I don’t take care of it soon.  So what do I do, Hancock?  Since you’re so holier-than-I, what the fuck do I do?”

“You _don’t_ commit cold murder, that’s for sure,” he said.

MacCready kept shifting his feet and opening and closing his mouth like he didn’t know how to stop the runaway landslide this conversation had become.  Evelyn crossed her arms, cocked her hip and her brow like she was still waitin’ on the solution to all her problems to come from Hancock’s genius.  Fuck, he didn’t know how to fix all this.  But he sure as fuck knew what _not_ to do.

He waved his cigarette in the direction of their guns.

“Those things just for fucking show, or do you two have something to back up all that _self-aggrandisement_ you keep doin’ when you get wasted?  That just the liquor talkin’?”

They both blinked all casual-like, like they weren’t offended.  But nothing gets a sniper’s unmentionables all in a twist like insultin’ their relationship with their gun.  MacCready got all sullen and pouty, pulling his hat further down over his eyes, and Evelyn tried not to appear as irritated as she was.  Like the fight and Hancock’s challenge hadn’t gotten to her.

“Way I see it,” he rasped, drawing on his smoke. “You think too damn much, sister.  We go to the nearest outpost with a radio, call for Cait and Strong, and fuck those Gunners up royally.”

MacCready eyed between Hancock and Evelyn.

“Just like that?” he said, his voice going all pitchy with renewed excitement.

“Just like that,” Hancock said.

Evelyn was silent, even with MacCready’s expectant eyes.  He really, really wanted Barnes and Winlock out of his hair.  Hancock wasn’t sure what she’d say.  Yeah, Cait and Strong were beasts unto themselves, but it would still be five against who-the-fuck-knows how many members of the best-trained and organized gang in the Commonwealth.  It wasn’t odds she liked.  She wasn’t a gambler unless she had all the variables under control.  But he was more interested in seeing her give up the notion of that outpost owned by Jenna and Whatsherface than he was in having his plan approved.

And her eyes told him she knew it, too.  Evelyn shrugged.

“It’s late,” she said, turning away. “Let’s sleep on it.  I’ll take watch for the rest of the night.”

MacCready paused, but nodded.  She was the boss.  Hancock tossed his cigarette and turned back to the truck.  If she needed time, he’d give it to her.  It was hard for her, he knew, to stifle her pride.  He crawled into his blankets in the humid trailer of the truck.  MacCready joined him a few feet away.

“Hey,” Hancock said before the merc could drift off.

“Yeah?”

“You need to keep your greedy little shit under control, too,” he said. “You two are cramping my style.  I mean, _I’m_ the one bein’ the voice of reason?”

“ _Alright_ , already,” MacCready grumbled sullenly.

Hancock rolled his eyes.  Eventually, he fell into a restless, irritated sleep.

 


	2. It's On A Road, So It Counts

He groaned as he pulled awake.  It was too damn early, he knew, with that weird half-awake sense you just got when it was too damn early.  Too early for him to even consider rolling over, but he did it anyway.  He sat upright, cross-legged, for a longass moment.  Just tryin’ to adjust to the rudeness of reality.  He coughed up and spat something phlegmy.  Hancock put on his hat.

MacCready was still out, sprawled all over the place in a sorta mid-sprint pose.  The merc didn’t even stir when the door clanged open and closed.  Hancock peered up at the moon slowly drifting over the horizon, the earth meeting anemic morning sky.  He popped a mentat.  A radstag bayed off somewhere in the distance.

He looked around.  No long legs eating up the perimeter around their camp, no dark eyes meeting his.  He strolled around the truck, scanning the empty, colorless wasteland around him.  Then he saw the hand hanging out of the open window of the driver’s side, fingers idly rubbing the cab’s peeling paint, a cigarette resting between index and middle fingers.

Hancock knocked on the door, jumping up on the running board to look inside the cab.  Evelyn looked back at him.  She had on shades, and her tricorn and Pip-Boy were sitting on the dash beside an overflowing ashtray.  Her jumpsuit was rolled down around her waist, and her shirtsleeves were rolled up to her elbows.

She drew on her cigarette.

“No lot lizards welcome, toots,” she said, dark lenses flashing in the morning light and smoke falling from her lips.

Hancock blinked.  He waited, clearly missing something.  He’d heard ghouls called a lot of things, but that was a first.

Evelyn smiled, shaking her head.

“Old word slang.  Lizard -- truck stop prostitute,” she explained.

He rested his arms on the window sill.

“Sure you don’t want a little company, big mama?” he asked.  He batted his eyelids for effect.

She snorted.  Her cigarette burned down to the filter, so she ground it out in her full tray.  The door popped open underneath him, and she slid down the vinyl covered bench to the other side of the cab.

“Go on, then,” she said.

Hancock plunked down on the seat, the rusted out old springs inside squeaking.  The sun was struggling to pull itself up fully into the pale, blue-green sky.  The cab was littered with wasteland debris, the clutter of nesting animals and drifters looking for shelter -- in other words, sentient nesting animals.  The small space was heavily perfumed with musk from a previous inhabitant and tobacco.

Evelyn pulled off her shades, tossing them beside her hat.

“Borrow a smoke?” she asked. “That was my last.”

She’d really been puffing away, then.  Hancock pulled his pack out.

“Thanks,” she said, lighting it herself.  It was always serious-Evelyn that lit her own cigarettes.

He watched her face, rich-gold and sleep-deprived at the edges.  The way she smoked.  Like a pre-war ad.  At first, he’d thought she was putting on a show, but when he learned where-- _when_ she’d come from, he thought maybe it was just a habit of those old world women.

Evelyn sighed.  She squinted over the dash at nothing in particular, those invisible mental wheels turning.

“C’mon.  Let’s hear it,” Hancock said.

She squinted, looking down, looking for her words like she could find them in the rusty holes in the truck’s floorpan.

“I meant what I said last night,” she said. “About people always having a price.  A _need_.  I just -- _forgot_ that sometimes the greatest need a person has can only be fulfilled by that one person beside them.  And nothing else will compare.  I forgot.”

And she frowned, getting a look in her face that was heading off somewhere faraway.   _Somewhen_ faraway.  Hancock looked away, wishing she’d kept those shades on.  Wishing he hadn’t seen that look.

Evelyn cleared her throat. “I owe you an apology.”

Hancock sat back and stayed quiet.  He was relieved, honestly, that his first reading of her wasn’t off the mark.

“The more I thought about it, the shittier I felt,” she sighed. “I was thinking about murdering people.  Good people minding their own business, their only offense was getting in my sights.”

She paused as a radstag and his doe clopped down the embankment above them and crossed the cracked road.  They watched the irradiated deer for a while.

“And you tried to make me see that, but I was too proud to just back down,” Evelyn continued. “So I owe you thanks, too.  For giving enough of a shit to call me out.  So, I’m sorry.  And thank you.”

Hancock tilted his head back, eyeing her.  He slid his mentat tin out and popped his second of the morning.

“Hey,” he rasped around a bitter tablet. “We’re friends, right?”

She smiled softly.  Not that _tender_ sorta softly, but more like a mild sort of gentling to her expression.  Not a spicy, flirty sorta smile she used to get his blood pumping, but an expression that was just _there_ and in the moment and appreciative.  Shit, this woman was going to be the death of him.  Her lows were so damn low, but her highs were fucking ridiculous.  ‘Course, what other type could keep up with his shit?

“Yeah,” she said.

Yeah, they were friends.  Friends that fucked, but friends.  They had their gunfight dance down: he goes in, shotgun hot, and she takes the high ground with eyes on his back.  Or she herds the poor sods out of whatever rathole with .50s falling from on high, herding them right into his waiting buckshot spread.  And they (generally) agreed on issues of moral import.  The types that needed hurtin’, the types that needed protectin’.  And she was fucking fun.

“Water under the bridge,” Hancock said.

Evelyn shook her head. “I don’t know, Hancock.  This river has a dam, and the water can run low sometimes.  I can’t promise this won’t happen again.  If you want to leave…”

She trailed off, letting the _I won’t hold it against you_ and the _I’ll understand_ sit in the silence between them.  She smoked.

“Naw, sister.  I get it; you can’t see the trees for the forest sometimes.  But you got people.  You got me.  Lean on us sometimes.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “I can promise that, at least.  You stick around, and I’ll listen when you got something to say.  Let me know when I’m going astray.   _Keep me in line,_ Hancock.”  She added a suggestive edge to the last.

He grinned, thumbing his hat.

“Trust me,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m gonna be in your shoes soon enough, asking for forgiveness.  You ain’t traveled with me long enough to see _all_ my bad behavior.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “That striptease when you got off your rocker on daytripper and _the last of my gin_ wasn’t the worst?”

“Hey, that was hot.  Don’t be shy; I know you were into it.”

She laughed.  The mood in the rusted out cab finally relaxed.  She leaned back, lowering her eyelids to gaze at him languidly.

“I still feel bad, though,” she said lightly. “I want to make it up to you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Evelyn smiled. “So.”

She leaned across the vinyl bench.  A single finger played with the ruffles of his yellowed, ancient shirt.

“Ask me, and I’ll do _anything_ you want.”

He watched her finger tug at his shirt, pulling at where the first button attached the two sides.  The tension in the cloth rubbed along his chest, caught under his arms.  He looked up at her face: the smudged eyeliner, the black hair swept away messily.  Unlike her, but the light in her eyes no less teasing and knowing.  Her lower lip was a little caught in her teeth.  Hancock shifted.

“A blow-job,” he said, not even having to think about it.

Evelyn raised a brow at him.

“A blow-job.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m giving you carte blanche here, and all you want is head?”

Hancock grabbed her chin, not gentle but not yet rough.  He kissed her, opening her with his teeth and taking his leisure with her tongue and her nicotine taste.  He sank his teeth into her bottom lip and kneaded until it was flush and red.

He kept his fingers around her chin as he pulled back.

“I want you to suck me off and get nothing back.  I want you to give me the best head I’ve ever had, watch me get off while you think about how you’re still burning and unsatisfied from last night.”

She stared at him.  And then -- she smiled a little smile, tilting her head back, looking at him.

He’d asked mostly to see if she would do it.  Well, really, he knew she would, but she hadn’t gone down on him yet.  And yeah this thing hadn’t been going on that long, but it wasn’t exactly an _exotic_ maneuver or anything.  So he’d been wondering if she would suck ghoul dick.  If she was just satisfying her curiosity, or if the _benefits_ part of friends with benefits went both ways.

Evelyn was smiling at him. “Alright,” she said.

She bent into him, bringing with her the salt of old sweat and gunpowder on her fingertips.  She was a waft of heat, a haze over the earth -- dazzling and mesmerising.  Her lips left a warm trail along his jaw, down his neck, at his collar.  Hancock sighed under such treatment, propping his arms up on the back of the seat.  Her hands roamed.  Heat and anticipation coiled in his stomach and his groin.  The sun was burning into his face, sitting just on the horizon as if waiting for the rest of this show.

Evelyn teased a little at his flag-belt, abandoning that route to smooth over the crotch of his pants.  Her hand carefully felt out the outline and the temperature of his stirring cock.  But then she stopped, pulling up.

Hancock grunted. “What?”

“I just realized,” Evelyn said, her voice low and amused. “Truck’s not moving, but I think this still counts as road head.”

“What?” Hancock said again.

“Head in a car,” she explained.  She reached for the Pip-Boy. “Usually moving.  But we’re on a road.  So I say it counts.”

She turned on the radio, twirling the dial to Diamond City Radio. “And road head calls for music.”

Travis was stumbling, tripping, catapulting through his report on something or other.  Evelyn swiveled back to him, scooting closer.

Gesturing at the little machine, Hancock frowned. “Aw, c’mon.  He’s killing the mood.” And his dick really was retreating from the mumbled stuttering filling the cab.

“Shhh,” she laughed.  And she pulled away his belt with a hiss of threadbare fabric.  Her fingers peeled back his trousers.  She met his eyes, and her gaze, so dark and arch, undid the sad work Travis had done to him.  Hancock exhaled and reached into his coat pocket for his cigarette pack.

“You people really had sex in moving vehicles?” he asked, placing a thin white stick between his lips and lighting it with one hand.

“Didn’t have deathclaws back then.  Had to get our kicks some way,” she said, pulling his dick out.

Hancock softly groaned.

Evelyn took his cock in her palm, rolling it, slowly coaxing it.  The damn thing wasn’t pretty.  Corded and bulbous with veins, the skin irradiated and mottled.  She’d never flinched before from laying her long-fingered, clean and manicured hands on it before, but it was… difficult.  Even after all these years, right when he thought he’d given up his last fuck about his appearance, another little loud-mouthed fuck reared its ugly face.  Telling him all about his own ugly face.

But those were other times.  Not the times when a beautiful ex-vaultie was getting all comfortable on her elbows and lowering her lips to the head of his fully-attentive cock.  A tongue glistened as she lightly tasted the tip, swirling a bit before sliding slowly down the length.  And slowly, oh so deliciously slowly she ran that hot, wet muscle back up the shaft.  Hancock made a low, appreciative sound.  She snuck her hands underneath his thighs, and Hancock shifted into the corner of the seat to give her a better angle.

Her fingers pressed and massaged the underside of his thighs.  And her tongue and lips worked with annoyingly light caresses and nips, the blood in the veins of his cock pulsing eagerly for more.  Hancock drew on his cigarette, trying to slow the pace of his breathing.  With his other hand, he untied her hair and pushed it out of the way, so he could get a good look.  She obliged him with a glance up and a particularly obscene lick, lips wide around her flattened tongue, along the underside where that super sensitive vein was.

“Fuck,” Hancock moaned.  

The sound bounced off the metal truck cab walls.  Travis had finally shut the fuck up, and music was playing.  The sad song, the one with the heartbroken girl.  Not really _conducive_ , but he could not give less of a shit right now.  He was getting impatient; he threaded his fingers through her hair, tugging.

And even though she was smirking a little, her lips obediently pulled the head of his cock in.  He sighed in relief as her mouth kept pulling him further and further in.  At a point, she reached her limit, and made up the difference with two fingers in a tight circle.  The other hand slipped into his pants to palm his balls.

“Ah, f-fuck,” he swore. “Fuckin’ god fuckin--”

His thighs twitched and strained with the effort to keep from ramming up into her hot mouth.  Shit, it was so good.  So good and hot and wet and all around and -- _fuck_.  Then she started bobbing, sucking down and leaving glistening trails of saliva and precum as she released and swallowed back down.  Goddammit.  Shit, shit.  Fuck.

And then the song changed.  The wanderer one.  And then he found out why she wanted music.  She changed tactics on him, stopping her bobbing (to his brief consternation and plaintive whine) and pulled his cock into her mouth deep.  Deep, deep.  And starting humming along to the melody.  Humming and thrumming and _chrissakes_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groaned, really loud and long and drawing it out (like, _ffffffuuuuuuckkkkk_ ) as her hot mouth kept vibrating around him.

She was looking up at him, and apparently liking whatever stupidass pleasured expression he was making.  If the way she was shifting and squeezing her thighs over there on the other side of the cab was anything to judge by.

Hancock had gotten a damn death grip in her hair; he relaxed his fingers, but it was getting real fucking difficult to focus on being a gentleman anymore.  He pulled on her hair, and she let him guide her.  Up and down, up and down, heat and tightness and slippery, disgusting sounds, and it wouldn’t be long now.

“Booosss!  ‘Loooo!  Hancock?”

“ _Motherfucker--_ ” Hancock groaned painfully.  Really, it was fucking painful -- that little shit broke his concentration, and he’d been _nearly there_.

Evelyn laughed reflexively, and had him so deep she gagged a little.  Hancock let go.  She pulled up and regained her composure, stifling giggles.  She tugged on his balls.

Hancock grunted loudly, and the sound attracted the wild merc in the vicinity.  He could see MacCready walking up the length of the truck in the side mirror.  Evelyn sucked his dick back into her lips.

Hancock turned a groan into a super- _super_ -casual sorta _mmmmmm_ sound.  Probably.

MacCready pulled up at his elbow, looking up at Hancock with his hand and cigarette (crushed at some point) hanging out of the driver’s side window.  He frowned as he spotted the mayor’s sweaty face and rapid breathing and crooked tricorn with his stupid fucking sniper’s eyes.  He tipped back his cap, squinting.  Evelyn was sucking down hard again, and Hancock tugged on her hair, pushing her down.

“What’s up, Hancock?  Where’s the b--”

“ _Little bit preoccupied, Mac_ ,” Hancock interrupted loudly.  He waved the crushed cigarette toward his concealed crotch.

He’d have to tell Evelyn about this later: the way MacCready stared at him for like a half second with this dumbfuck, bewildered look, and then the dawning of his great realization.  Like he got smacked in the face with unwashed mutant ass.

“ _What the fu--_ I thought you were fighting--”

“ _Shit changes_ ,” Hancock snapped. “Help a brother out and get lost.”

MacCready threw his hands up, a placating gesture.  He stalked off quickly with his red ears and his weird expression.

The distraction gone, Evelyn turned ruthless.  Blessedly, blessedly ruthless in her work on his dick.  She let him guide her as he pleased, fingers tangled and rough in her hair.  Her humming continued, and what finally was getting him was that vibration around the sensitive flesh where the head met the shaft, her hands working his balls and his cock.

“Evelyn,” Hancock rasped, warning her.

She met his eyes, her face turned up to him and her mouth full of him and the sides of her mouth slick and glistening.  She nodded slightly, pulling him in a bit more.  And that sight, and that feeling, and that knowledge that she wanted to take all of him, have all of it -- that’s what gave him that final sudden flash of heat, that rolling tide of pleasure.

His cock jerked as he came, the added warmth and thick viscosity filling her mouth, sliding around him and slipping out a bit.  But she swallowed most of it, the muscles of her throat expanding and contracting along with his own twitching ride down from the high.

Hancock fell back against the vinyl-covered bench, closing his eyes.  He felt light and woozy and sated.  He could die happy feeling like this.  His eyes slid open to a sliver, to watch her scoot away again, her hands combing through her hair.  He couldn’t see her face; he’d liked to see if she still had him on the corners of her lips.  She lifted hair from the back of her neck, trying to cool it, and her thighs shifted together.

Hancock licked his thin lips.  He fished out a cigarette for her.

“Here,” he said. “This is what you get until our next stop.  Let it build.  And think about all the ways I’ll finally give it to you.”

She slowly turned back to him.  He wasn’t still on her lips, and he couldn’t kiss her to see if the taste was still there.  Her eyes studied him.  She took the offered smoke.

“You look like you’ll need a full day to even move from that spot,” she smirked.

He sighed. “Feel like it, too.  But you took the cigarette.”

“I did,” she said lightly. “I mean, I _did_ say I’d do anything you want.”

“I thought you might be into this sort of thing.”

“You read me right.”

She smoked, putting back on her hat, Pip-Boy, and shades.

“C’mon.  Put your junk away.  We’ve got plans to make for those Gunners.  And I need to make sure I still have MacCready on my payroll.”

“Yeah, yeah.  Gimme a minute, you damn cannibal.”

He sighed, shoving himself back into his pants. “Ya know, I’m never gonna be able to hear that song again without popping a boner.”

She hopped out of the truck, banging the door shut.  Turning back around, she lifted her shades a little to wink at him.

“Good.  You and that third leg of yours can think of me.”

She walked off, and even after getting sucked bone dry, Hancock felt that wash of heat at just the wink she gave him.  Just a wink, and he wanted more.  More, more, more.  Everyone’s a whore for something.  He sighed, leaned back again.  As he peered at the bright, hovering sun, he started to hum.

“ _I’m the type of guy_ …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading~


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